Broke Down and Dirty
by skyz
Summary: She feels the pain. He feels the burn. One broken. One dirty. A friendship is formed. Or is it something else entirely?
1. Chapter 1

"…their fucking accents and their fucking rain! Hate 'em. All. Whole country. Screw William. Give me Harry… We redheads gotta stick together ya'know."

She was in some bar. That looked barely inhabitable and had some kind of theater in the back.

It was smoky and hot. Or maybe it was just her. She was hot.

Gorgeous actually.

But hot in the sense that her body temperture had risen. It had to be because it couldn't be the Scotch she was drinking. It was weak but it would do. This bar was just too damn hot.

She preferred Balvenie single malt whisky…but beggars couldn't be picky. Or be a bitch to the bartender because he was the one with all the power.

The power to keep serving her drinks.

She turned her head. Slowly. Feeling that if she did it any faster it might fall off.

"Don't see the appeal of London. Princes' and Queen's. Who needs them?" her companion asked quietly.

She focused quite blearily on the pen he was trying to turn about his fingers.

"I love pens. Aurora's. Bexley's. Caran D'Ache makes a fabulous pen. What's that?"

His stare was hard.

His eyes fathomless.

"It's a Bic."

She grinned. Couldn't help it, not when he was looking at her like she was crazy.

"I love it. It's all black and writy…" she trailed off as she took a gulp of her weak Scotch.

"You're drunk," he said and there's wonder in his voice. Head cocked to the side and a small smile tugging at the side of his mouth.

She stared at him and he stared right back.

Sad. He was so sad.

"Did you just ever fuck a girl, Preston?" The question's blurted out before she realizes it.

Hanging between them.

She saw his eyes flash. With what she's not sure.

"I mean," she continued blithely as if she hadn't called him out. Hadn't brought the discussion back to where it all started, "without the coffee. Without the feelings. Just the need to get off? To expend…energy. Just plain old fucking?"

He hadn't moved an inch since she'd started talking. His eyes were unreadable and she wondered why she'd asked it in the first place.

Preston Burke wasn't the kind of man who fucked.

A man who would pick up a woman in a bar.

Take her home and fall in love with her.

Preston Burke was not her husband.

"Doesn't it get old…" she whispered. "The feelings?"

"You're drunk. I'll put you in a cab and see you home," Preston muttered as he shook his head as if to clear it and rose to his feet.

She watched him, head propped up by her fist and feeling the alcohol. Tasting the smoke and feeling free. Light.

She glanced down at her hand on the table.

Her left one.

The one bare of its usual rings.

She felt free.

Burke took hold of her elbow and helped her to rise.

"I live in a place called Bell Town," she muttered trying not to slur her words.

"I know. At the Warwick."

"You can stay with me. Get drunk with me."

"I have a room already."

"Don't want the company?"

"You're drunk," he repeated as if this was news.

The night was cold and windy and when they stepped out into it she shivered.

"And you're not," she muttered irritated.

A cab was there.

He made sure she got in safely and slid in next to her.

"The Warwick," Preston told the driver.

He glanced at her and she could feel his gaze.

She turned her head so she was looking at him sideways.

"I do. Get tired of…the feelings," he muttered.

Her light feeling was going away.

Drifting…

Fading…

Until she just felt broken.


	2. Chapter 2

He wasn't sure what he was doing here. How he had ended up here.

He usually always had a plan. He made plans and stuck with them.

He wrote lists and expected to do everything on them.

That was just the way he was.

Some how, somewhere he'd gotten off course and he found himself floating.

Floundering.

Adrift in a sea of change and pain.

"…redheads gotta stick together ya'know."

His attention sharpened and focused on his companion. He'd been paying very little attention to what she'd been saying.

But he hadn't gotten to where he was by not being able to hold a conversation in his head and with someone else at the same time.

Rain and men.

That had been the topic of choice.

He watched as she turned her head quite slowly. He knew she was tipsy and was perhaps trying not to show it as she turned oh so slowly.

"Don't see the appeal of London. Princes' and Queen's. Who needs them?" he asked quietly.

Truthfully he'd never thought much about England. He'd been there once. To attend a conference and he'd stayed indoors through out the week he'd been there.

Traveling was a nuisance. He was used to his routine and travel disrupted it. He had to sleep in an unfamiliar bed, eat food he hadn't prepared himself.

Some times he couldn't even get in his morning jog.

So if she wanted to tell London to fuck off he was all for it.

She was watching him he realized abruptly. Watching his hand actually and his eyes followed hers.

He was using his bad one.

He resisted the urge to stop.

"I love pens. Aurora's. Bexley's. Caran D'Ache makes a fabulous pen. What's that?"

She had expensive taste, he mused. He'd bought his mother a fountain pen from Caran D'Ache and had the Ivanhoe himself.

Why was she talking about pens?

Right. She'd asked him a question.

"It's a Bic," he replied, working to keep his tone serious. Because she was serious.

She grinned suddenly.

He couldn't help but stare at her.

She was different. From what he'd thought she would be.

Here in this bar, drinking her Scotch and grinning like a fool.

Some how she seemed lighter. Less burdened

"I love it. It's all black and writy…"

He watched intrigued as she trailed off and took an actual gulp of her drink. Which he'd had the bartender make ice tea because he was sure Addison didn't want to be embarrassed at her actions come the morning.

"You're drunk," he realized belatedly. He couldn't help himself as he tilted his head and felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

Seemed like his little plan had backfired. Of course when he'd come into the Rendezvous he hadn't expected to find her here and he didn't know how long she'd been drinking.

He realized she was staring at him and he couldn't help but stare back.

Her blue eyes were swimming with emotions. The sadness he saw reflected back at him made him wonder why she stayed here.

In Seattle.

"Did you just ever fuck a girl, Preston?"

He watched her eyes widen, as she seemed to realize what she'd asked. He stiffened and forced himself to remain still.

Why had she asked that?

The question hovered between them.

Had he ever fucked a girl? Who asked questions like that? Had she ever fucked some one? Had she fucked that Mark guy? Is that what she did that drove that bastard Shepherd to Seattle?

"I mean," she was saying, as if she'd just asked about the weather. Like she hadn't invaded his personal life with that question, "without the coffee. Without the feelings? Just the need to get off? To expend…energy. Just plain old fucking?"

He wondered what she was seeing when she looked at him.

Was she seeing him as some kind of replica of her cheating husband? Did she think that he could treat women like that?

Discard them?

Lie to them?

Fuck them and then leave them?

He had never done that. He liked relationships. He liked what it brought and how he could take care of some one else.

He liked making love to women.

He had never needed to fuck some one.

Never.

He was not Derek Shepherd.

"Doesn't it get old…" she whispered. "The feelings?"

Feelings? What did she mean?

Love?

The sadness?

The guilt?

Everything?

Did everything he was feeling now, did it get old? Did he want to feel numb for the rest of his life?

To submerge himself into oblivion and never feel again?

"You're drunk. I'll put you in a cab and see you home," he found himself saying instead of answering her question. Shaking his head to clear the thoughts her questions aroused.

She was watching him with her head propped up on her fisted hand.

Looking lost and sad.

He watched her a moment as she gazed down at her ring less hand.

He wondered what she was thinking.

He took hold of her elbow and helped her to rise.

"I live in a place called Bell Town," she said unnecessarily. Her words were slightly slurred.

He knew where she lived.

"I know," he said. And he did because he lived there too. "At the Warwick."

"You can stay with me. Get drunk with me."

"I have a room already," he muttered and realized she was lonely.

"Don't want the company?"

He wasn't fit for company these days.

"You're drunk," he repeated to remind himself that this was a different Addison. Not the one he knew. Not so strong. Not so fierce.

She was drunk.

She was sad.

She was lonely.

The night was cold and windy and when they stepped out into it he caught her shivering and ushered her faster to the waiting cab.

"And you're not."

He heard the irritation in her voice. Didn't bother to answer her.

He made sure she got in safely and didn't bump her head or throw up before he got in next to her.

He glanced at her.

Thinking about her question. About the feelings.

She turned and tilted her head in such a way that she was looking at him sideways.

She looked pathetic and adorable.

He ached.

With feelings.

Too many of them.

_Too many_.

"I do. Get tired of…the feelings," he muttered turning back to face forward.

He wasn't drunk but wished he were.

He wasn't broken but felt like it.

He was here.

Solid.

Breathing.

Aching.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. The light that had been in her eyes, the alcohol he assumed had faded.

She seemed…

Maybe she was like him.

Adrift.

No…

No, she wasn't.

She was broken.

And so was he.


End file.
